In the Twilight of the Moon (A Preview)
If you enjoyed the themes and emotions portrayed in the preceding short stories, then you will likely also enjoy my novel In the Twilight of the Moon, which is currently available as an electronic book (ebook). The following are excerpts from two different points in the story. In the first excerpt, two brothers vying for their father’s approval begin to reveal the diverging paths they will pursue towards that goal. The second excerpt suggests that, as Nicky graduates from high school, an adolescence of approval seeking starts to taint his relationships with women.
Excerpt One
The first signs that my family might be veering off the proverbial beam appeared at about the time my Uncle Frankie arrived in Canada. They were hard to pinpoint, mind you, not anything that you could actually put your finger on; rather, it was the kind of thing that you became aware of only when it was happening to you—sort of like when you feel sick but the doctor can’t find anything wrong with you—or when your car suddenly responds differently from what you’re used to but the mechanic has no idea what you’re talking about. But you do. You know something isn’t quite right because you’re the only one who lives with your body all day long and you’re the only one who spends time in your car every single day. That’s how I felt about what was happening to our family. On its own, each event did not draw attention to itself; but the sum total of their effect suggested that we might not be the portrait of stability that my father tried to paint.
Up until the day of Uncle Frankie’s arrival we were just another family living in a downtown flat, which we shared with my mother’s two sisters. But on that day, my perception of our family’s dynamics received its first dent. On that day, my brother Marco, although he had never been a saint, showed the first signs of the aggression that would come to define him in a violent encounter at school. And when we got home, our father made his feelings on the matter abundantly clear. He and my mother were on our front steps, in overcoats, waiting for us. Ma, her handbag slung over her forearm, fidgeted nervously while my father, belt dangling from his hand and vengeance in his eyes, removed his fedora and pointed us into the house.
The first slap my father threw merely grazed Marco’s shoulder, my brother having managed to elude it by twisting quickly away. The return backhand, however, landed full force on the side of my head, which left my ear ringing for several minutes.
“What did I do?”
My father responded by slapping me again.
“But I was with him.” I pointed to my brother.
“You weren’t where you were supposed to be.” Then my father turned to my mother. “Did I not tell them this morning to come straight home? Now, instead, we have to go rushing all over the place just to get to the station on time. They just hold me to their ass, both of them, that’s what they do.”
“Luciano, please—”
“Luciano please my balls!” he countered. Then he kicked out his good leg, missing Marco but leaving himself teetering off balance on his sick leg.
“Figghiu di puttana!” he growled as he struggled to retain his balance. Son of a whore!
All day I had been afraid of this kind of reaction from my father, so I had tried to leave the school as soon as the four o’clock bell rang. I was supposed to meet Marco inside the front door of the school, next to the large bank calendar. But no one was there—only the calendar with the date glaring at me: December 16, 1959.
I checked outside. With the wind chill, the temperature was about thirty below and my nostrils stuck together with every breath. Marco wasn’t out there either. Instead, I saw a group of boys running to the schoolyard behind the playground.
“Fight! Fight!” some were chanting. Instinctively, I, too, rushed into the schoolyard, where a commotion of some sort was taking place. A crowd of children was huddled around two boys tangled on the ground. Oh no, I thought. Not today of all days.
My feet kept slipping from under me on the icy ground as I pulled on my brother, who was straddled angrily over another boy.
“Stop! Marco, don’t, we shouldda been home by now.”
“Shad-up!”
I kept grabbing at my brother’s arm, trying to pull him away. “Marco, stop, he’s bleeding. We gotta go to the train station.”
“Who cares!” And he kept flailing away at Enzo’s head, which was buried in his forearms to shield himself from the blows. His crying had turned into a wail, but Marco didn’t care.
“Shad-up, ya big sissy. Shad-up ’n fight.” Even as he spoke, Marco continued to rain blow after blow on the helpless body beneath him, interrupted only when I grabbed him with both arms and tried to pull him off. Marco paused, all right, but only to shove me to the ground and kick me in the shins. “Stay outta this, Nicky, I mean it.”
“But daddy’s gonna kill us. We’re already late.”
I cannot describe the look my brother gave me. I had never seen it before. It told me that I knew what the consequences would be if I continued to interfere.
“You there, break it up!” Fortunately Mr. Bailey, the vice-principal, dashed into the schoolyard, his index finger threatening punishment.
“Johnny Yuma!” Marco yelled as he ran off, referring to the Rebel in the weekly television series, leaving me with Enzo, still screaming hysterically on the ground. I was dirtied and had a tear in my shirt, but Enzo had a welt over his eye and blood was trickling from his nose.
“Good God, what brought this on?” Mr. Bailey helped me up then cradled the other boy. “There, there, son, you’ll be okay, you’re just a little banged up is all. Let’s go inside and get you some band-aids. Della Croce,” he turned to me. “Wait outside my office, I’ll be with you shortly.”
I sat outside Mr. Bailey’s office for what seemed to be forever. I knew what would be waiting for us when we got home.
When Mr. Bailey came for me, he was shaking his head. “Nicky, have you forgotten what your father tells me every Parent’s Night?”
“No sir.”
“What does he say?”
“That you can hit me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way. What he means is that he supports the school in disciplining his boys for their wrongdoings. He wants you to assume responsibility for your actions. You do understand that, don’t you?”
I stared at the floor. “Yes sir.”
“Look at me please.”
“Yes sir,” I repeated, raising my eyelids towards him.
“Now what exactly went on out there? Enzo’s hurt and he’s afraid to tell me what happened.”
“Yes sir.”
“Why don’t you tell me then, Nicky?” Mr. Bailey nudged my elbow.
I just sat there, staring in the general direction of Mr. Bailey’s chin.
“Go ahead, son. I need to know what happened.”
“He said something,” I mumbled.
Mr. Bailey waited patiently but I said nothing further.
“Who said something? Enzo or Marco?”
“Enzo.”
“What did Enzo say?”
“He said a name,” I lied, my voice little more than a whisper.
“A bad name?”
I continued to stare at Mr. Bailey’s chin.
“Nicky, did Enzo call Marco a bad name?”
“No sir.”
“Well what name did he call him then?”
“He called me a bad name, sir,” I lied again.
“Oh, I see, and Marco came to your defense, is that what happened?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well son, I still can’t let this go unpunished.”
“No sir.”
“I expect you to remain after school each night for a full week.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I’m going to have to do something about Marco. Your parents need to know.”
“Yes sir.”
“Very well, Nicky, you can go now.”
“Thank you sir.” I turned to leave.
“Oh and Nicky?”
/>
I paused. “Yes sir?”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No sir.”
“I mean you’ve always been a good boy.”
“Yes sir. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye Nicky.”
Marco was waiting for me at the curb, pacing anxiously, his breath rising in clouds, like smoke signals, into the icy air. “Whaddid the geezer want?”
“I gotta stay late after school all this week.”
“Did he say anythin’ ’bout me?”
“No.”
“Good. An’ you better not either.”
I didn’t have to. My father’s belt when we got home said everything that needed to be said.